


Look At Us

by Deejaymil



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: ...is the name of their sex tape, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Masturbation, Porn with Feelings, Sex Tapes, Sexual Dysfunction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-16
Updated: 2018-03-16
Packaged: 2019-04-01 03:10:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13989216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deejaymil/pseuds/Deejaymil
Summary: Emily troubleshoots Reid's dick.Incidentally, that's also the name of their sex tape.





	Look At Us

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Reid not understanding porn tropes in Natural Born Killer... and then this was born. I'm not sorry.

_Every man of genius sees the world at a different angle from his fellows, and there is his tragedy._

**_Havelock Ellis_ **

****

****

She’s always wondered about the downsides to genius; in Reid, they’re immediately obvious. His ability to hyper-focus leads to fixation. His passion for learning leads to obsession. His relentless drive leaves him alone in his own head, waiting for the rest of them to catch up. Chances are, they never really will. In some way, he’s always going to be alone and, worse, he knows it.

In moments like these, she watches him. The intense moments; she loves to see his bladed focus locked on some goal. Loves to see the angles his mind works a problem at, seeing representations of the world that she can’t even begin to fathom. Emily’s not stupid, but she’s also not Reid. No matter how much she tries, she can never match his brilliance. It’s very much like looking at a lampshade with multiple lightbulbs installed, one so bright that it makes the others seem duller in comparison. But, in moments like these, even when he’s intense, he’s human.

She reminds herself of this; he’s kneeled between her legs and the lights are dimmed. Shadows play on his bared skin. She watches the patterns it makes on the bumps of his spine, shifting with his muscles as he flexes into her. A long line of skin culminating in his bowed head and messy hair. She can’t see his face, but she knows the expression he’s wearing as he turns that hyper-focus onto her: knows it intimately.

His chin tips up. Eyes that are dark in the muted lamplight meet hers. She’s captivated by them. Hazel, except when they’re not. Light, but not right now. Dark, and she can see herself in the wide pupils as her gaze travels down that narrow nose, traces his wet lips, watches as he licks the taste of her from his mouth. A quick, pink flash of tongue and she drags him up and tastes that too; he’s silent, as he always is, and pliable, like he only is in bed.

And he never speaks. Even as she asks him, “What do you want?” he just smiles and deepens the kiss, folding her back as he crowds atop her with his wide hands cupping her face and leaving a sticky line across her thigh as he bumps, hard and heavy, against her. The best she gets is a breathless _ahh_ that’s slow and hazy, like air being let loose from an unguarded tire, those dark eyes flickering as that focused look fades. In seconds, it’s back, and she’s the centre of his world once more.

Reid fixates. He focuses. Analyses every minute detail. She bets that, if she were to ask him outside of sex, he’d tell her from memory every different way the light touches her body. The way the shadows lay under the breasts he loves. The way light catches her eyes, her jawline; the way light and shadow combine to create the curve of the throat he’s now bringing his mouth to, learning every line of it with the press of his lips. Sex with him is a performative act: she’s loud, because he’s not; she’s alive, because he’s muted; she’s the sun he steadfastly orbits around, refusing to come closer for fear of burning away.

And she’s never surprised by this; there’s not a single one of them that doesn’t have control issues.

“Just fuck me,” she snaps today, wet and ready with everything from her cunt to her teeth aching to feel him inside her. His reply is those dark eyes meeting hers again, a distracted smile, and he tilts his head and just _looks_. No matter how long this last, this thing they have together, this never stops being worrying. She knows that look. It’s spellbound. There’s a podium in his head with a facsimile of her atop it, and the one thing she knows about podiums is that they always topple. In bed, she’s the teacher to his overactive mind: the lesson is her body and he wants to know it all.

She’s not sure she can give him that. Right now, he’s aroused and hungry and everything she wants him to be—he’ll get her off in _just_ the right way to have her snarling his name into the sheets but, when it’s his turn to let go, his turn to relax, she knows what will happen.

And it does.

He’s buried deep and breathing hard. She’s languid from his tongue and his hands, trying to coax him to the madness she feels when she’s coming, but they’re already past it. Instead of turning that hyper-focus onto his own pleasure, he’s distracted. His job is done; he’s gotten her off. His cock inside her is softening, his gaze unfocused. If she’s the professor to his student, he’s already thinking of the lesson’s end. Perfunctory once he thinks he’s given her what she needs.

“Spence, come on,” she coaxes, nipping at his neck and earning another of those soft _ahs._ “Come on, baby, come on. Come for me.”

It takes another three minutes of fumbling and gasping and every bit of her knowledge of what makes him tick—throat, ears, curling her fingers through the back of his hair and pulling his head against her shoulder as he taps his hips against hers—but she gets him there. It’s a quiet, “Em,” and a sigh, his hips stalled and his teeth gritted in frustration as the barest rush of something warm inside her betrays him. Instead of being pleased by this, he just seems uncomfortable, pulling out fast and vanishing to wash.

“You know this is supposed to be about both of us,” she reminds him when he returns with a wet cloth for the mess between her legs and a towel to dry off after, a bottle of water crooked between his arm and side. “If you’re not having fun, I’m not either.”

“I am having fun,” he says, mouth twisting as he crawls back into bed and kisses her shoulders while she cleans herself up. “I’m just…”

“Distractible,” she finishes for him, watching him smile guiltily. “I know.”

And she’s sure there has to be a way around it.

 

* * *

 

Sex is rare between them. In the time they’ve been doing this, whatever ‘this’ is, there’s only been a handful of standout times between them. She only minds sometimes. Sometimes, she wants something less than his focused intensity and the way he treats her like she’s precious and breakable and somehow special. Sometimes, she wants more than the difficulty of finding a time when they’re both not working, not busy, not tired, not wound up in their practised neuroses. She uses sex as a stress relief; he can only perform when he’s calm. It’s not a good mix.

She’s always stressed and he’s rarely calm.

In practise, they’re not committed. She’s free to see who she wants, as is he, and there’s a spoken agreement between them both that the only time it will come up is if it threatens the safety of the other—while his discomfort with latex doesn’t discount the use of condoms, she has enough trouble as it is with keeping him hard. They don’t need that added barrier. With anyone else she sleeps with, she uses protection; with him, she relishes his trust in her. Not that there’s anyone else. Work keeps her busy and she can’t find the time.

Which is weird, because before they’d started this, when fucking him hadn’t even been a distant option, she’d always found the time somewhere. Nowadays, she just gets horny and finds herself at his door, hoping he’ll answer it with a smile and a flush, knowing he’ll likely just answer looking ruffled and sleepy and pleased to see her. Hoping for sex, knowing what she’ll almost certainly get is a night of watching _Doctor Who_ tangled in each other’s arms, her back to his chest on the couch as he cards his fingers through her hair and whispers odd facts into her scalp between thoughtless kisses.

And, on the nights they do fuck, it’s a process. She’s learned it carefully. If he’s not in a particular mood—a little silly and very amiable—she doesn’t try initiate, because, if he fails to perform, he’ll pull away all night and marinate in undeserved shame. If he initiates, she lets him lead. They find a rhythm with each other, a careful dance in the dim lights of whichever room they stumble into. He doesn’t like the dark, except when they’re naked together, then he likes it suggestively shadowed. Hiding what he sees as his ‘imperfections’, like the scar on his neck or the soft white dots on his arm. She doesn’t mind. It hides hers too, like the brand on her chest and the scar on her belly and the tiny tattoo of a blackbird on her thigh he loves to outline with his tongue.

Tonight, there’s no sex. She’d known that from the moment their case had gone bad that there wouldn’t be. It burns in her, the victims they hadn’t saved, the lives they’d lost, and she’s frantic to feel alive and real, despite his heart beating hard against her back. The TV is on, but muted. She’d lost her temper with the noise of it and he hadn’t complained, just turned subtitles on and said nothing in response. Even now, she’s wound tight, stressed out, wishing he’d give her what she needs; her fingers curl tight and hard in the blanket around them and her thighs bunch tighter, a rush of anger pushing hot all the way through her to coil between her legs. She wants release; she wants _him_.  She just wants to know that she’s alive to fuck, that she didn’t die out there as well.

His mouth touches the back of her neck, his body nestling tight and warm to hers. Stupidly long, all angles and arms, and she’s angry at him for being there, but not really.

“Do you want to have sex?” he asks in his annoyingly enunciated way, lashes brushing her shoulder as he lays a line of kisses along her body. The answer is _yes_ and she knows he knows because there’s a hand on her shoulder-blade feeling every thump of her over-excited heart. “We can.”

“Can we?” she asks, immediately regretting her wry tone when she feels him flinch. “You’re not in the mood, Spence, don’t force it. Neither of us will enjoy that.”

“I don’t have to be in the mood to enjoy it,” he says pertly, his wide hand sneaking around to take hers and splay them both across her belly. “Why don’t you show me?”

It’s the first time they try this; him at her back with his body cradling hers as she gets herself off in his arms. It’s not the last. By the time she’s finished, he’s half-hard and breathing fast and strangely thoughtful. She wonders what he’s thinking.

She wonders if he looked away once.

“Beautiful,” he whispers finally, kissing her damp fingers and rubbing absently against her, his erection subsiding now that her heartrate is slowing. “You’re beautiful.”

_And damaged_ , she thinks but doesn’t say, because what kind of a person needs sex to feel alive?

Instead she just says, “Dork,” and pads away to wash her hands.

 

* * *

 

He’d read a paper on liminal spaces over the weekend, so their Monday morning is spent with him regaling them on the specifics. Emily is more interested than she’s ever going to let Morgan know, making all the right kinds of ‘mmhmm’ and ‘uh huh’ noises to feign disinterest, but unable to look away from the excitement in Reid’s eyes.

“I mean, they’re places you feel uncomfortable about spending extended periods of time in,” Reid is babbling happily, flipping a pen through his fingers as he talks. “But people work in them—I wonder, do those spaces remain liminal to them? Theoretically, it’s fascinating, the places between the ‘what was’ and the ‘next’. Are they altered while they’re in them, caught in limbo? Can someone become accustomed to being _stopped_ —” And, just like that, he catches her eye and freezes.

She doesn’t know what he’s seen or thought about while looking at her; she just knows that he’s gone from cheerful babbling to a stark panic, and she knows his brain is self-destructing over some minute detail.

“Man, you’ve really got to learn how to relax,” Morgan is saying distantly, unaware that Reid and Emily are caught in the same waiting breathlessness. “You and I have _very_ different ideas of what the internet is used for.”

“Okay, Derek, ew,” scolds Garcia, swiping him with a pen as she swoops past.

Reid takes a breath and looks away, cheeks flushed red. Emily just blinks. She’s not sure what just happened, or what’s happening next—liminal space, she thinks. Trapped between the what was and the next, and it’s an uncomfortable feeling of waiting. Did they just end? Did he just panic and mentally end them?

It’s a weird feeling to realise she hopes she’s wrong about that.

It’s a stark feeling to realise she doesn’t think she is.

“Yeah, I’m sure you like to ‘relax’,” Emily says brightly, trying to draw attention away from Reid’s overbright eyes and back onto Morgan’s internet browsing history. “Just you, twelve co-eds, and a pizza man, right?”

Reid looks puzzled, eyes flicking everywhere but her. Emily bites back her disappointment and hides behind a mask of professionality. Never mind. There’ll be other men, ones she doesn’t have to jump through hoops with to turn on.

Oddly, this doesn’t help.

Maybe, just maybe, she kind of likes that he takes work.

“I have no idea what you guys are talking about,” Reid says blandly, standing and walking away with a folder in hand. “I’m just going to go… copy things.”

“He knows that folder’s empty, right?” Morgan asks. “Also, bullshit that kid has never watched porn. I refuse to believe it.”

“I believe it,” Emily says dryly. “But seriously, Morgan, it’s not even ten o’clock. I don’t even want to think about Reid naked, let alone this early.”

If Morgan raises his eyebrows at her, she retains her dignity and ignores him.

 

* * *

 

He comes to her that night, and he has her pants off before she’s even worked out what’s going on. It’s quick and needy against the living room wall, her hands leaving fingerprints on the paint, and there’s a manic kind of focus to his expression that’s both arousing and unsettling. He’s hard but, she can tell from the frenetic beat of his fingers, not for long, and it’s stressful to watch that misery claw its way back onto his face when he seems desperate for release.

“What were you thinking today?” she asks him. They’re pulled close together, the paint cold against her bare ass and her leg wrapped around him, balance all on her other heel and his wide hands holding her up. He’s not inside her, but he could be, if only he’d shed his pants and control and let his lizard-brain take over for once. “This morning… you looked upset.”

“Liminal spaces,” he murmurs, kissing her nose. She hates when he does that, wrinkling it at him in disgust, but he simply smiles sadly and does it again. “Where are we? Waiting in the in-between? Waiting for something else…” He buries his head deep into her chest, chest heaving, the light from her curtains playing strangely across his broad shoulders and the creases where her grasping fingers have crushed his shirt. When he speaks again, his voice is muffled by her shoulder. “I don’t want this to be a threshold to something else, but I don’t know how to focus in order to make it something more.”

She shrugs, helplessly. This is out of her wheelhouse. All she knows is that she’s definitely not aroused anymore, and neither is he, lowering her leg and trying to pull him towards the couch. In her hands, he’s stiff and unyielding, the shame creeping into his eyes. “Maybe focusing is the problem,” she says finally, trying to think it through. If one approach isn’t working, try another. “Maybe you just need to… relax?”

He kinks his eyebrows at her, in that moment very much like Morgan, and she blinks in return.

It’s a wild idea, the one she has next, but, hey, wild is what they do, right?

 

* * *

 

“Are we trying to save our faux-relationship with pornography?” Reid asks, watching her with interest as she boots up her laptop and props it on the coffee-table in front of them. “I’m not sure how this is supposed to help, Emily… I told you, pornography and erotica don’t do anything for me.”

“You told me that you’re not asexual, that you do _want_ sex—you’re just too caught up in the _details_ ,” she stresses, inching close to him so they’re hip to hip and snuggling close as she juggles the wireless mouse down to the couch next to her. It’s four hours later and they’re fed and showered; he’s calmer since she shows no sign of throwing him out and she’s calmer because he’s showing no signs of freaking out on her. And, shit, she’s done weirder things to save something she cares about—what’s a bit of porn? “If we can work out how to bypass the knotty bits in your brain, maybe we can… I don’t know.”

“Get me off easier?” he says. There’s a chuckle in his voice. She glares. Despite her glare, she’s warm and thankful for the heating in her condo; they’re both naked—to set the mood, she’d said, and he hadn’t argued—and cuddled close. She’s always loved his body when his guard is down. With the lights off except for the blue glow of her laptop screen lighting up his chest and stomach with a strange, soft-harsh gleam, she twists close to him and cocks her mouth up to demand a kiss. Unsurprisingly, he obliges.

“How do you feel when we have sex?” she asks him.

He’s quiet for a moment.

“Be honest.”

It seems to hurt him, but he closes his eyes and nods slowly, before opening them and staring at her desktop wallpaper. “Transfixed,” he says in a whisper that’s just for her, in this liminal space all of their own. Not a physical place but an emotional one, some moment between this one and the next. “You’re so beautiful when you let go… unconcerned of your body, of your humanity. You’re not ashamed to be naked or without control… it’s captivating.”

She shivers but says quietly, “I asked about when _we_ have sex, Spence… not just when you get me off. How do you feel when you’re inside me? When _you’re_ coming?”

This seems harder. The man who never lacks an answer seems to lack one now, looking at her and then at the laptop and then at her hand on his abdomen, searching everywhere but within for the answer he doesn’t have.

Until, he does. And it hurts, just like she thought it would.

“Scared,” he says, breaking her heart just a little that she can’t give him what he gives her. “I can’t… the focus _shifts_. It’s not on you, it’s on me, and I can’t…”

“Trust in your body to do what it wants. To lose control.”

He huffs a breath, chest heaving once. “I can’t lose control,” is squeezed out between gritted teeth, his fingers tight on her leg. “The idea is… abhorrent.”

Satisfied, she nods. “There. That’s why we’re doing this. It’s probably hypocritical to send you to a shrink—” The look he shoots her is amused: just because she can let loose in bed, doesn’t mean she’s any less of a control-freak than he is, and they both know it. “—but maybe we can kink your way into losing control.”

“ _Kink_ my way into losing control? What does that even mean? Emily, you do know that I _have_ watched porn before, right? This isn’t uncharted territory for me.”

She eyes him: _I’m sure_ that looks says, and he frowns are her, all lines and pouts and a disapproving mouth that she wants to kiss until it’s approving again. “You were thirteen when you graduated high school. I don’t think you were surfing porn sites at thirteen.”

“Well, it was the nineties… I _did_ go to college.” He seems unfazed by her snort. “And I don’t have kinks.”

“That’s a lie. Everyone has kinks.”

They just have to find his.

 

* * *

 

It’s a disaster. He tries, he really, really does. It’s almost amusing how hard he’s trying—probably too hard, if she’s going to be honest—but however his brain is hardwired, it’s not in a way that’s letting him slow down and enjoy the subtleties of any of the sites she pulls up, whispering a soft _sorry_ to her laptop with every click.

There’s one that’s nice, amateur porn with a couple Emily can immediately tell are comfortable and familiar to each other. Reid agrees; he points out the lines on their fingers where they’ve removed the wedding rings for the shoot, then goes into a spiel about the architecture of the room they’re in when he notices the strangely designed windows. Emily puts up with that until she realises that she’s paying more attention to the window frames than the rigorous fisting happening, and then she sighs and clicks on.

She’s keeping it vanilla and goes for women on women, but it takes him less than ten seconds to profile the girls in the video—that one is straight and uncomfortable with the role she’s playing, that one was likely abused by someone close to her—and she doesn’t even wait for him to explain his reasoning because as soon as he points it out, she can see it. In that one, and the next, and damnit, he’s going to ruin porn for her too.

The next one goes fine, except Reid’s still soft and seems almost bored, right until he begins chattering nervously about the history of porn, which delves into critique of the genre and the association with forced gender roles and exploitation of women. Emily’s never been less aroused, or less inclined to be so while still on a porn site.

Erotica is out; he reads too fast to enjoy it and she can’t read it while he’s staring at her waiting for a reaction. They try art. That’s a mistake they don’t repeat again, and Emily’s never going to be able to really look him in the eye in art museum again.

“Maybe aural porn?” she asks, frustrated.

“Does that exist?”

It does, but the only one she can find is a clip of two men. This doesn’t seem to bother him, not really, and it even elicits the barely flicker of interest.

“Don’t stare at my dick, Emily,” he says, laying flat on his back with his gaze locked on the ceiling and earphones in. “It’s unsettling.”

“I’m seeing if it’s working,” she protests.

“It won’t if you _stare_.”

Grumpily, she grabs a magazine and reads, sneaking glances at him out of the corner of her eye. Sometimes, she sees his eyes close, hand working himself lazily, but there’s no real action happening there. It’s a drift of almost-aroused, not-aroused, and he keeps dropping his hand and looking around the room for something to do with his body. Foot jiggling, gaze distracted, fingers tapping on his bare thigh: she gives up and holds her hands out for the earphones.

“I told you,” he says glumly. “There’s nothing we can do. I don’t have kinks—I’m aroused by you because you’re _you_ ; I’m repulsed by myself for much the same reason. I find you attractive, not myself. Therefore, I _love_ it when it features you. Why isn’t that enough? Why do we need to go that extra step?”

“Is it enough?” she asks him, closing her laptop and wishing it was. “This isn’t a feature of your brain, Spence, it’s not something you want or enjoy—it’s a recursive loop you’re trapped in. If it was _you_ , it would be fine, but you don’t think it is, do you?”

He just stares her down, his expression deceptively bland. “Why does it matter if I enjoy sex? You haven’t answered that. There are plenty of people with low or non-existent libidos who live happily without it.”

“It matters because you said you were scared,” she says quietly. “And I can’t bear to know that you’re frightened of something that I know is beautiful.”

“You think sex is beautiful?”

She doesn’t crowd close or press the matter; all she does as she answers is take his hand. “No,” she says simply. “I think you are.”

He’s quiet after. They both are.

“Don’t give up on me,” she whispers before they fall asleep, seeing his head tip slightly towards her even as he feigns sleep. “We can solve this, together. We just need to… examine other angles.”

He doesn’t answer, but she’s not worried. They can do this.

She’s never been one to give up on the things that she wants.

 

* * *

 

It’s a week later when she thinks of it. It seems so obvious that she doesn’t know why she hadn’t thought of it before, except probably because it’s really only something she’d think about in context.

Context being home alone and horny and wondering if she should text him to let him know that she’s taking matters into her own hands, a sly part of her mind thinking he might get a kick out of that. He seems to, when she’s the only one involved. It’s when he has to consider himself that everything seems to fall apart.

And, after that thought, comes the solution.

He only takes a little bit of coaxing.

 

* * *

 

It feels like it might be a disaster. They dim the lights so their faces are obscured but they’re both hyperaware of the camera watching them. She can’t help but wonder if he’s remembering the last time he had a camera on him; he’s clearly overthinking every move he makes.

But they persist and, eventually, she even manages to take his mind off the camera and onto her. In the shadows and the lamplight, she’s determined to make something even he’ll admit is beautiful.

There’s nothing liminal about this moment. There’s only the here, and the now, and the man she desperately needs to begin loving himself, just a little, so that she can stop being so afraid of loving him in return.

 

* * *

 

They set a date to re-watch it. Rather, she says they should set a date, and he disagrees and says that they should ‘watch it when it feels right’. It’s a startling thing for Mr. Control himself to state, so she agrees. And three weeks pass, until she’s sure that he’s had an attack of the nerves and just wants to forget the whole thing.

It’s midway through the night when he rolls over and says, “Now?”

The room is dark, the outside darker. They have their curtain open to watch the stars through it, even though they can’t see any in the centre of DC. No moon lights the sky, just clouds, the occasional passing car, and it’s this she’s looking at beyond his shoulder when she nods and says, “Okay.” She doesn’t need to clarify what: she knows. An excited thump is already working its way into her heartbeat, speeding up and making her feel giddy, warm. Unsettled and excited all at once.

It feels like forever to set up the laptop and plug in the flash drive with the video file saved upon it. Her hands tremble as she shuffles back onto the bed with him, hearing his quick breathing and seeing his worried eyes. She takes his hand, and doesn’t say a word, just nestles tight to his body and revels in the warmth of his flannel pyjamas against her skin. She’s in barely nothing; he’s overdressed; and it’s like this that they’re sitting as the video plays.

It’s unexpected. They’d nailed the lighting. She can barely work out their faces from the angle and the shadows playing on their skin and, at first, all she can see is him sitting stiffly on the bed, her standing in front and coaxing off his clothes, their heads cut off by the careful angling they’d done.

A swift flurry of movement and she’s on the bed, straddling him, pressing him down to his back. There’s the suggestion of a sharp jawline before it tilts away from the camera; she recognises the tattoo on her thigh and smiles. And they watch in silence as he coaxes her until she’s astride his face, watching her hips sway as his neck bends at an aching angle to get right where he wants to be with his mouth and tongue. The noises are uncomfortable to listen to and Emily wiggles, feeling her cheeks heat up and knowing she’s the opposite of aroused right now. She can barely bring herself to look at the real Spencer next to her; when she does, she forgets her embarrassment.

There’s that look, the same gorgeously captivated look, but it’s not on her for once—it’s on the video playing out on the screen. He’s watching it like it’s something amazing, like it’s something he’s never seen before. Wondering what he’s seeing that she’s not, she looks back.

Light plays on the skin of her thigh and hip as she moves her hips with the way he guides her, his knee coming up and hiding his crotch from the camera angle. It casts the illusion of mottled flesh, of movement that’s more forceful than what it is. Of an otherworldliness, like it had been strangers on that bed instead of the man beside her now.

Before she can wonder further, the figures on the screen have moved. The woman—because she seems a stranger to Emily’s eyes now, the tattoo hidden—shifts and slides down the eager man, his hands helping hold her steady until their mouths meet. They kiss, and Emily feels it. The same captivation that Spencer does. The man kisses like he can’t breathe without the woman’s mouth on his; his hands move constantly over her body like he’s not done learning every inch. They kiss like new lovers but twine together like old, the man rolling her easily onto her back and pausing to examine her hungrily. For a moment, his face is caught in the light, those dark-light eyes, that stunning expression.

Emily’s wet. She feels the gut-drop of heat tumble from somewhere in her abdomen down between her hips, feels a warm throb follow. The man gazing so hungrily at the woman he loves is hard, harder than she’d realised at the time. Her eyes trace the curve of his cock and a small part of her tenses tight at the tantalising thought of watching him use it.

The moment snaps and the man bows to bring his mouth to the woman’s breasts, the noises softer than before. Gentle gasps of pleasure from the woman; the man has to break away from her occasionally to—she’d thought at the time he was breathing—catch his breath and catch himself, his expression dazed and hungry, his hand slipping down to palm at himself in an unconscious gesture she’s not even sure he’d noticed at the time. And he returns, licking a line up her abdomen that elicits a genuine moan of pleasure from her.

There’s a small echo of it next to her. She looks, and the tight heat becomes an intense flame. Spencer is hard. His gaze is locked on the screen, his mouth slightly open and teeth worrying gently at his lip, and the flannel front of his pants is tented. She leans close and rubs her palm over it, feeling wet cotton and the firm outline of his cock. Curls her fingers around that outline and feels his whole body twitch in response.

“Emily,” he breathes in a voice like she’s never heard from him before.

“Keep watching,” she tells him, nudging his hips up. He obeys. Pants down, underwear following; he barely even seems aware that his cock is out until the two on the screen break apart to whisper together and he looks down at her with the same dazed expression she’d seen on his face on the video. “Strip,” she tells him.

He does.

She takes him in her mouth as the man on the screen does the same for the woman, his fingers twisted through her hair and shifting in the same rhythm of the ones he’s watching. It’s not like when he’d watched her alone: the arousal is there, just the same, but this time he has the tactile feedback of her against him as well as the visual pleasure of the video, and his brain can’t focus on so much stimuli and _still_ worry about control. Despite being out of practise, her jaw aching and a little unsure of her tongue, she keeps taking him until he’s making those soft _ohs_ in the kind of strangled voice that means he’s choking back moans, tasting the bitter tang of his excitement building. And she’s horny, sure, she’s fucking gagging for it by now, but that’s nothing compared to his face when she slips off of his spit-shiny cock and looks up to find him looking completely, utterly fucked, looking from her to the screen with his lip swollen from biting back noise.

“What do you want?” she asks him, hearing someone on the screen beg for more. She knows it’s her; sees his eyelids flicker between them again as red pools down his chest in the blue light. It’s a dark flush and she licks his cock to remind him she’s there. “Tell me, Spence. What do you want? Right now? What are you picturing? What are you thinking? _Tell_ me.”

He looks at the screen as he talks, actually _talks,_ his voice deep and husky and all kinds of fucked-out. It’s a dangerous voice. She’d do a lot of things to hear that voice again; is pretty sure she’s going to do most of them tonight.

“I want to see him fu—” He bites it off and she’s disappointed, but not for long. On the screen, the woman is about to come. Emily can hear it in her voice and knows it’s because the man’s fingers are working magic on her. “I want…”

“Just tell me what you’re picturing,” she goads. “Spence, that’s the fun of porn—don’t focus on the details. Don’t focus on what they’re doing. Close your eyes and touch yourself and tell me what _you’re_ imagining.”

He does, closing his eyes and letting his head tip back, throat bobbing as he swallows. She takes his hand—it’s warm and wide and soft in hers—and brings it to his cock, crawling up onto the bed so she’s beside him as her fingers curl his around himself.

“Tell me,” she murmurs in his ear, letting go and watching with interest as he teeters there for a moment, still hard, still panting.

On the screen, Emily cries out. Gasps his name. Moans it, drawing it out, saying it so slowly that it’s a prayer more than a cry. Like it’s something special to her.

Like she loves it.

“Oh fu-uck,” the Spencer beside her chokes, his hand gripping tight and stroking once, twice, again, until it finds a rhythm. “ _That_. I’m… you’re saying my name like that and I’m… I’m inside you, I’m fu… we’re moving. You’re, you feel… warm, so warm, and wet, I’ve made you so, so, so wet…” He seems to stall out, hips bucking, and she glances over at the screen, knowing what comes next on there. They have sex and it ends quickly, with his usual rushed worry. None of this frantic need that’s occurring in real life, drawing her in, sinking every minute detail into her mind.

“We’re having sex now,” she tells him, watching it happen on the laptop screen. Watching her slip her knee over him. “We’re about to… I’m on top of you…”

He whimpers, hip shifting on the bed, thumb sliding over the slit of his cock with every upward stroke. “The first moment I’m inside you is perfect,” he chokes out, eyes snapping open and closed with a painful speed, like he can’t decide which is better. “I… I can’t think…”

He can’t, she realises. The way he is on camera, she can see the lower half of his face, and guess the expression on the top. She watches herself sink onto him, taking him, and she sees what she’s never seen before: past the worry. Watches how his hands grip the side of the bed for stability before coming to her side. Watches the way his mouth shifts into a stifled shape of pleasure before the worry comes back.

She begins to move on him and the noise is unmistakable. Separate from the action, she can hear the noises he’s making too—the soft mewls, hidden under her louder gasps—and see how she clings to him.

“Emm…” he draws out, knee curling up beside her, hand working fast. “No, no, not… I don’t… I want you. I want you. I want—”

She gives that to him. She’s been wet this whole time and he’s harder than ever; it’s no problem to pull his hand out of the way and settle down atop him, feeling every muscle in his body tense at the feeling of pushing up into her. And she watches: watches his eyes pop open and go comically wide; watches his hands snap to grip the sheets as though to cling to himself; watches as he looks to the screen and goes, “Oh,” at what he sees.

She’s going to tell him to stop looking, to just imagine, but she doesn’t have to. Suddenly, he’s up against her, all slamming heart and an aching cock quickly buried deep, rolling her fast onto her back and curling his arms around her as he drives his hips down. It’s fast and rough and loud, and he’s not in control of any of it. Not even the depth; she wraps her legs around him and pulls him tight, the video forgotten as they roll tighter and tighter and his mewls turn to panting moans that fuck her up. She’s never going to be able to be with someone else, not without longing to hear those noises again, the ones that come from deep somewhere in his chest and seem to hurt him the whole way out even as she feels him hard and hot and moving fast in the part of her that wants him the most.

He kisses her. It’s wet and a little sloppy, nothing like him at all, and their teeth click together. Again he kisses her. Again, and this time his mouth twists and he groans into her mouth, arms pulling tight, hips slamming home and stopping. Stopping.

For three painful seconds, he’s stopped, not coming, but stopped. Then he moves. Slowly, then faster, on a beat out of sync with the people on the screen. Emily can’t think to remember what’s happening. He’s not paying attention either.

“All I could think was how much I wanted him to fuck you,” Spencer’s saying roughly, his voice hoarse, his eyes wide and dark and lost. “I wanted him to fuck you, Em, you wanted it so bad. You needed it. This. You need it.”

“Yes, yes,” she snaps, a little unsure what he’s talking about right now, brain offline. A small part of her knows—so _that’s_ your kink, it thinks smugly—but the rest of her is more focused on the way she can feel him tightening up against her, his hips beginning to stutter. Her mouth takes advantage of it, even if her brain isn’t quite there yet: “What else, baby, what else? Tell me everything?”

He bites her shoulder, shoving deep and pausing again before taking up a steady, smooth rhythm that she realises with a start is fucking her in all the right places; she’s only ever gotten off to dick alone twice in her life, but if he keeps up a pace like this, with a voice like _that_ , this is going to be number three. And, where he bit, he licks and blows hot air on the cooling skin, before nipping again.

Around him, she begins to clench.

“I wanted him to make you come,” Spencer says with a satisfied twist of his hips. “Just like you are right now.”

And she is, twisted and shaking and calling out her shock into his chest as she buries her face into it. He doesn’t stop, just keeps up that fucking _pace_ , and she thinks she either comes again at the end of the first or that her first lingers on strangely long; it doesn’t matter, because before she’s barely done, he’s slamming home hard in three smooth strokes that stutter to an end, choking out, “ _fuck_ ,” and then coming deep inside her in a hard, hot rush that’s something she’s been missing dearly.

They lay tangled in the sheets, breathing hard and in unison, their bodies stuck with a series of sweat and semen and everything else they’ve gotten everywhere, but neither of them move. Neither of them can. Spencer just looks fucked, his expression glazed out and his body slumped into the sheets. There’s a bruise coming up on his shoulder, she thinks, touching it gently. He barely twitches.

“I,” he says, and stops. Shrugs helplessly, wrapping his arm around her and pulling her, if possible considering he’s still soft inside her, closer. “Uh.”

“Yeah,” she agrees, kissing his chest. The screen of her laptop is black. She wonders when the video finished. “Hey, Spence?”

“Mmm?”

“…I think you _might_ have a kink.”

His laughter is worth it, and she buries _I love you_ into the wave of his hair. Later. She’ll say that later.

Maybe she’ll even film it.


End file.
